


Some Sunny Day

by fawatson



Category: The Charioteer - Mary Renault
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:46:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 745
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fawatson/pseuds/fawatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Although in different places, three people all share the experience of listening to Vera Lynn's broadcast, with differing responses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Sunny Day

**Author's Note:**

> **Originally posted to:** fawatson's personal LiveJournal and crossposted to maryrenaultfics at Live Journal on 11/11/2010.  
>  **Originally Written for:** Brigit’s Flame Challenge – October 2010 (week one)  
>  **Prompt:** Hero  
>  **Disclaimer:** I do not own these characters and make no profit from them.  
>  **Author’s Notes:**   
>  (a) This story is being posted in honour of Remembrance Day, and the 70th anniversary of the Battle of Britain.   
> (b) Approximately a year after the start of WWII, Vera Lynn began a regular radio programme, “Sincerely Yours”. “We’ll Meet Again” was her signature tune for these broadcasts. Lynn recorded “I’m in the Mood for Love” in 1935 and “There’ll Always be an England” in 1939.

It was ridiculously sentimental. Lucy knew that, yet she could not bring herself to turn the radio off. Quite the contrary: almost from the first week she had found herself organising her day around the broadcast. There was something strangely compelling about it. 

“This song was requested by....” The brief announcement was quickly followed by familiar dulcet mellow tones. _I’m in the mood for love...._

Lucy smiled as she sliced three thin slices of bread and spread each with a meagre scraping of potted meat. It had been a clear day, and she had spent much of it pottering in the garden, pruning back the roses, and clearing leaves that had fallen from the oak tree next door. She had come indoors not long since, hungry from hard work. Two years ago Laurie would have done the heavy work for her. Ever since he turned sixteen, he’d always helped with Autumn tidy-up. _Last_ year she’d managed to hire a jobbing gardener to come and help. But this year, her son was in hospital and every able-bodied man was busy with the war effort. There had been no help to be had. 

Lucy’s back was aching from all the bending she had done, and blisters had developed on her right forefinger and thumb from the pruning secateurs. They made holding the bread knife rather awkward, painful even. She paused long enough to administer first aid, wincing as she dabbed on tincture of iodine with a bit of cotton wool, before she cut a small strip of sticking plaster and bandaged finger and thumb. Still, she was lucky, she supposed. Her boy was safe – wounded (horrifically wounded in fact) – but mending. She picked up the tray with her tea and made her way to the sitting room to sit cosily near the radio so she could listen while she ate.

* * * * *

This was one of his bad days. He hadn’t had so many recently – not like those hellish weeks just after he’d been evac’d. But it was bad now. Quite what had set his leg off this time, Laurie didn’t know. It had already been throbbing before the VAD nurse had started her ham-handed change of dressing earlier. That had left him on the verge of howling and only the gimlet gaze of Matron as she oversaw the junior’s work had prevented him from cursing roundly. An hour later his nerves had settled down sufficiently and he had read an article in the _Daily Express_ , before Reg had come over from the next bed to suggest a game of cards. The tea trolley was making its slow way around the ward when the broadcast started, “This song was requested by....”

* * * * *

As his plane taxied to a stop, Bim couldn’t stop shaking. He sat for a few extra moments while the ground crew fussed round, putting blocks to wheels, before he shoved back the canopy to the cockpit and levered himself out and over the side. It had been close, this time. His rudder was shot to hell and gone, making it near impossible to manoeuvre, delaying his return until almost dusk. He’d landed on nothing more than fumes. He’d been bloody lucky to get back at all. 

“We’d almost given you up,” Group Captain commented, as he entered the common room later. 

Bim just shrugged, heading straight for the armchair in the corner. He lit a cigarette and took a long slow drag before sitting down, and stretching his legs out. Someone shoved a coffee table in his direction and he hooked it with one foot, drawing it nearer until he could prop both feet up. A hand reached down with a bottle; he accepted gratefully, looking up only long enough to flash a brief smile. 

“Your round next.” Bim nodded. 

_There'll always be an England, And England shall be free...._

That god-awful mawkish programme was playing on the radio _again_! Bim tipped his bottle back and drank deeply.

* * * * *

Lucy rested her head against the chair’s wingback, idly petting the dog’s head. She’d given him the last corner of crust as a treat, and Gyp was sniffing her lap in hope of more. Laurie’s dog: left while his master went off to fight, waiting faithfully to be reunited. It wouldn’t be long now. The song rose to a crescendo on the radio as she pushed the terrier away, stood, and picked up the tray to take back to the kitchen. 

_I know we'll meet again some sunny day._


End file.
